coming back
by Kakashihasnicearms
Summary: With America gone, Britain decides to phone China and others to see if he had the same resolve: get their brothers back into their arms, protected from the world. What they don't know is how far they'll go. USUK Yaoi


Britain slammed his hand on his desk and gritted his teeth. He refused to cry. Not again. Suddenly, the phone rang. He glared at it.

* * *

He'd just lost America a week ago. On top of that, he was knew America had tried to see if the he would want to just not go to war. Britain had been so mad and preoccupied that America and his army had defied _him_, a huge world power, he'd rejected it with no further thought. It was now that he regretted it. He regretted having fought with his precious brother. Since he knew America like the back of his hand, he figured that America regretted fighting. And regretted winning.

Britain still had wounds where America had ruthlessly tried to stab him with his bayonet. Eventually, he'd gotten a golden opportunity: America's glasses flew off, and as America watched Britain's every move, he'd glance down for any sign of his glasses. Britain looked around, despite his urge to just shoot America now.

America threw his gun at Britain suddenly, and lunged to get his glasses. America had grabbed them so suddenly and didn't notice his strength and the glasses shattered in his hands, effectively rendering his right hand useless. Large shards of glass stuck out of his bloodied hand. Britain frowned. _No. Arthur, don't you dare! He's the enemy right now! Look, opening! Opening= your chance to win! your chance to kill the enemy! **Arthur! Don't listen to that idiot!**_ _I'm not an idiot! You're the idiotic compassionate one! **Oh, shut up for a moment! As I was saying, he's America! Your little brother! Help him! If he were 200 years younger, he'd be crying like there was no tomorrow! He may not be crying, but that hand's got to hurt like the Dickens. He's crying on the inside. He needs your help. **That's stupid! That isn't America anymore! That's the new, vicious, and cold-blooded rebelling country! Kill him! **Don't kill him!**__Kill him! _

"Ceasefire!" Britain called out, wanting to be loud enough for the armies behind each to hear his plea. America scowled at him. As he tried to stab him with this uncoordinated left hand. Britain sidestepped easily.

"Like I should listen to you, _brother,_" America spat. His army, notably General Washington, frowned. General Cornwallis opened his mouth to say something, but stopped.

Britain gave America a hard look. He ripped the sword out of America's hand, leaving him defenseless, and kicked him to the ground and kept his foot on America's chest. America pouted (which in the very back of Britain's mind thought was the most adorable thing ever) and mumbled:

"Ceasefire..."

Washington's eyebrows twitched slightly. America glanced at him. Washington nodded and ordered some soldiers to get a tent set up and a medic box. After a few minutes, a tent was set up and Britain dragged America over, who didn't want to be anywhere near his doting brother. America's face burned and he dragged his feet. Britain threw him in the tent and swiftly pulled out a knife and stabbed his legs and left hand. America screamed as Britain turned and stowed his knife and took out bandages. A solider came bursting in, yelling:

"What the hell did you do to America, bastard?!"

Britain responded: "Get some water." The soldier walked out and yelled at some '...damned redcoat' to get water for their _King._

After a minute, a redcoat brought back a pail of water.

"Sir, this is the water you asked for," he said nervously. Britain nodded and motioned for him to get out. He set a lamp on the ground, bowed, and left. Meanwhile, America had screamed in pain during the few minutes.

"Britain! You bastard! Why the _fuck_ did you do stab me?!" America yelled out. Britain grabbed a pair of tweezers and began the grimace-ing work of pulling out the glass in America's hand. America had been muttering curses at him the whole time. Britain stuck his hand in water and quickly bandaged it. He did the same with the other hand: sticking it in water and bandaging it.

However, the legs were a different story. America gave him the dirtiest look he could muster. Britain swore America had somehow been in contact with Russia, picking up his dangerously strong killer-intent aura.

"Don't you even dare, _bastard,_" America growled.

* * *

"Hello?" Britain asked.

"It's France..."

"What do you want?"

"Ah, erm, well...about...you know..." France stuttered. Britain was mildly surprised. He hadn't heard him stutter in quite some time.

"No, I don't know, so spit it out, cheese monkey."

"America."

Britain immediately hung up. He didn't even want to talk about it.

A light knock on the door signaled tea time. Britain's head slammed into his folded arms on his desk.

"Come in..." Britain murmured.

A maid walked in and judging by the slight clink the tea set made, she'd flinched at the sight of Britain. He was pale and he hadn't changed out of this clothes in a week. So, it was the same clothes he'd worn when he fought...perhaps a better word was in order?

* * *

"What are you going on about?" Britain asked levelly.

"My legs..." America's face had a slight hint of pink.

"And what about them? Come on, we haven't got all night till you bleed out and I am still your superior and there will be no country called 'America' and your troops will be hung for treason against the Crown," Britain said.

"You're going to have to bandage them...and in order to do that...my pants..." America looked away.

"Pants?"

"Yeah..."

"Don't you mean 'trousers'?"

America turned slowly, staring at him, giving him a look that translated to 'I don't give a fuck that your British words mean 'underwear' in _my_ English'. Perhaps it could've been 'Yes, you _fucking_ idiot.' His mouth opened slightly in shock.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes'," Britain nodded as if to confirm this to himself.

"Y-you're not going to take them off..."

"Oh? And then how will I dress your wounds then?"

"I am..." America stuttered. Britain noted, again, that he was being so cute.

"What? You want me to close my eyes? Because I'm not going to," Britain regretted the underlying meaning of his words as soon as they came out. He suppressed a blush.

"What do you mean? You _want_ to see me half naked?" America gawked at him.

"..." Britain hummed and crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

"Well?" America narrowed his eyes at him.


End file.
